the waiting game

Her hand is on your face, these clavicles protruding from her chest like the sturdy bough of a ship. She sails into the marina by your house, the one where you patiently wait for her, standing like an obelisk at the edge of the dock and glowing against the dark night. You make the moon look dark with your luminescence and the tranquility in your posture, like the quiet movement of sand from the top half of an hour glass to the bottom. You are moving but it is too dark to see. She can only hear your movements, her ear leaning in towards land to get the most out of your welcome.